


Mama Mogar

by peantutbutter



Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27297286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peantutbutter/pseuds/peantutbutter
Summary: Michael loves being the leader of the Lads, don’t get him wrong. It’s just that sometimes he feels more like a mother or underpaid babysitter.
Series: Tumblr Prompt Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757851
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Mama Mogar

Back when he was young and desperate for approval and responsibility, Michael had begged Geoff to trust him with his own little group to lead on smaller heists and stickups. Nothing much. Just him and Gavin, and maybe Jeremy. Something to prove that he could handle more than working demo or serving as extra muscle.

He was surprised when Geoff hadn’t even bothered to fight him on it. He’d just leveled Michael with that analyzing look he got whenever he was considering something. And then he’d just shrugged and said “Sure. But don’t come crying to me when shit goes down.”

Michael had walked out of Geoff’s office with the biggest grin on his face and a hundred different ways to paint the city red.

* * *

Three years later, Michael thinks Geoff is the biggest bastard in Los Santos. Dickbag knew exactly how it would play out. How Jeremy’s chaos, Gavin’s encouragement, and his anger would all interact. Sure, the Lads were efficient, but they also tended to leave a massive swathe of destruction in there wake. Something Michael is usually left to clean up. 

Sometimes it’s not so bad. Sometimes Trevor and Alfredo join them. Both of them, mercifully, think more than one step ahead, and they can escape with less collateral damage. Sometimes he has no fucking idea what to expect, but he knew it was going to be a wild night when Fiona showed up dressed as a teletubby. 

He loves being the leader of the Lads, don’t get him wrong. It’s just that sometimes he feels more like a mother or underpaid babysitter. 

Case in point: tonight.

He’d left Gavin, Jeremy, and Fiona to take a piss for Christ’s sake. He was gone all of — what? — two minutes? Apparently that’s all it takes for them to start trouble. 

They like to frequent rowdier bars when going out for bevs. The likelier they are to have a secret illegal fight club going on, the better. 

It isn’t uncommon for them to stumble across places with drunken brawls. Any idiot can start a fight. Michael just hopes that it isn’t _his_ idiots this time.

Of course, that would be too much to ask, wouldn’t it? 

He narrowly dodges a glass shattering against the wall when he steps out of the men’s room. A large crowd is gathered in a circle in the middle of the bar, and he can’t see what’s going on. But he doesn’t need to. As soon as he hears Gavin and Fiona’s drunken cheering — “Get’em Lil’J!” and “Fuck’em up!” — and Jeremy _hap-happing_ to hype himself up, Michael groans. 

How irresponsible would it be to just go back into the bathroom?

He doesn’t — damn him and his conscience — but he doesn’t get involved either. It’s about time they learn that good ole Mikey won’t always be there to save them. So, he heads to the bar instead. Ordering a virgin whatever and some mixed nuts, he ducks his head, and pointedly ignores the bad decision happening behind him. 

To the bar’s credit, they actually get security to intervene. 

Just not until after someone — presumably Fiona, but really it could have been any of them — bites and scratches another person. It’s a flurry of angry French, panicked squawking, as two buff guys haul the two Europeans over their shoulders and carry them like sacks of potatoes. Another two guys have to wrestle Jeremy to the ground before carrying him out and tossing him to the curb as well. 

Michael sighs. Part of him really wants to let them sit out in the cold rain and calm down. The more realistic part of him knows that the longer he leaves them alone, the more likely they are to get into _more_ trouble. He knocks back the rest of his non-alcoholic drink, slams a few dollars down on the counter, and picks up his bag of nuts. Casually, he makes his way out of the bar.

It takes him longer than he’d like to find them For three drunk people, they move fucking fast. He doesn’t even see them first, just hears their drunken arguing and follows it until he tracks them down to a sheltered bus stop. 

“Stop, don’t touch my face,” he hears Jeremy snap. “I don’t want to fucking talk to you.”

“But Jeremy,” Gavin whines, “My hands are cold! It’ll help the swelling!”

“Oh my god, both of you shut uuuuuuuup,” Fiona groans. And then, more quietly, like she’s just realizing it, “Guys, I think I bit that guy...There’s blood in my mouth.”

Michael’s coming up behind them, sees them seated on a bench, leaning on each other. Gavin shoves his hands in Jeremy’s face, making the other man recoil in pain. “What are you — Gavin, stop — Ow!”

Michael knocks against the glass of the bus shelter and comes around to lean against the frame. He pops a few nuts into his mouth and chews on them while the others process his sudden appearance. “So,” he says after swallowing. “Was there a scuffle or something?”

Gavin’s eyes light up and he throws himself at Michael, his arms wrapping around him in a loose hug. “Micoo!” he coos. He turns slightly to look at Jeremy and Fiona, both of whom are glowering and covered in blood. “I told you he wouldn’t leave us! Micoo would never leave his boi!”

It takes a lot to keep his face trained into a disappointed scowl. He’s angry. He’s fuckin’ pissed. Not so much because of the fight but more because they just ran off. But it’s hard to be mad when Gavin is acting like a cuddly koala, draping himself over Michael’s shoulders like he’s trying to be a blanket.

Fiona opens her mouth to say something, but a pathetic whimper escapes Jeremy’s mouth when he pokes at his tender, swollen face. And, shit, that’s enough to soften Michael’s expression at least a bit. The yelling can wait. It’ll be more effective when they’re sober. 

“C’mon,” he sighs. “I’ve got ice packs and wet wipes in the car. Let’s get you guys home.”

He holds his hand out to Jeremy, who takes it meekly. Fiona stands and slinks after them as they walk back to Michael’s car. She pauses every now and then to spit onto the sidewalk, making a disgusted noise every time. When they make it to the car, he pops the trunk and pulls out a first aid kit for Jeremy. He fishes out some ice packs and Gavin keeps himself entertained by placing band-aids on anything he deems to be a “boo-boo.”

Then he pulls out his emergency bag and lets Fiona unbox the toothbrush and toothpaste. She needs it more than he does right now and he always carried a spare just in case someone else was with him when they have to run. 

Once everyone is more or less cleaned up, he piles them all into the back seat. He’d love to enforce the seat belt rule, but something tells him that’s a losing battle. They all slump against each other, and it’s a tight squeeze back there anyway. As long as he drives carefully, they should be fine. 

He slides into the front seat, adjusts his mirrors, and turns the engine. It’s quiet and sleepy, but as he peels out of the parking space, he hears a small chorus of “Thank you, Michael”-s.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up you fucking idiots,” he says, but the smile on his lips and the fondness in his voice betray him.

Twenty minutes later they’re stumbling through the door to the penthouse. He shoos his drunk friends to their rooms, making sure they’re laying down on their sides with a bucket nearby, and making double sure Jeremy is without a concussion. 

Geoff is sitting at the kitchen counter, Diet Coke in one hand and heist plans in the other. He lifts an eyebrow and his eyes sparkle with the same amusement they always do whenever Michael brings the Lads home from an exciting night. “How’d it go?” he asks.

Historically, Michael has been known to flip him off and not say anything, but now he’s taken to pulling up a chair and commiserating.

"This is your goddamned fault,” Michael says, not because he means it, but more because it’s what he always says when shit like this happens.

Geoff shrugs and takes a sip of his soda. “You fuckin’ asked for it, kiddo,” he answers, because that too, is part of the tradition. They’re silent for a beat, and then he breaks the pattern. “But, for what it’s worth, you make a pretty good mama bear.”

And y’know what? Coming from Geoff — a professional cat herder if there ever was one — that means a fucking lot. Michael steals his can and takes a drink to conceal his smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @peantutbutter if you like!


End file.
